


The Web

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Horrific Imagery, Horror, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Spiders, Spiders as Spies, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 00:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16419110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: Moriarty is dead. That doesn't mean he isn't watching.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [2018 Spook Me Multifandom Ficathon.](https://spook-me.dreamwidth.org/) My prompt was "spider."
> 
> Erm... it probably goes without saying that you'll want to avoid this one if you're arachnophobic.

*

He was face down on the pavement, cheek pressed against the damp ground, his hair heavy and wet with blood. There were people all around, the ground trembling with the uneven rush of hurried footsteps, a carefully choreographed chaos.

And John was there, John's familiar voice cutting through the cacophony and above all else it was imperative that he believe the lie. 

Sherlock's eyes were open and he stared straight ahead, focusing on nothing and everything as hands reached for him, grasped at him, felt in vain for a pulse. John's fingers were cold. Shock, most likely. 

A spider danced across his nose, feather-light legs brushing his skin, looming large in his line of sight and he nearly flinched, nearly gave up the game. 

Someone turned him over, the pavement rolling away underneath him and his gaze pointing skyward. Rainwater and cold blood stung his eyes, ran like tears down his face. The spider fell away. Still the ghost of its touch lingered, making him want badly to twitch, to shift, to brush it away. 

But Sherlock had always been a master of his own transport. He did not move. 

*

Molly would not make eye contact.

The air in the morgue was cold, and the wet mess of his hair made him shiver. Blood had dried stiff on his skin and he scratched at it, still feeling the faint echo of the spider's touch. Rust-coloured flakes drifted down to the clean tile floor. 

"You need to—um," Molly glanced up at him, her gaze skittering away almost immediately. "There's a shower down the hall. Second door on the left." 

He supposed he did look rather ghastly. A living corpse, still bloodstained and damp from the rain-soaked pavement. Startlingly out of place even amidst the refrigerated bodies and chilled surgical steel of the morgue. 

He looked over her shoulder, his attention caught by a body on a gurney, draped with a white sheet.

"Is that him?" he asked.

Molly closed her eyes. "Yes." 

He brushed past her, heard her startled inhalation. 

"Don't—" she said, but he ignored her and whipped back the sheet. 

She made a small noise of dismay. 

"Surely you've seen worse," he said, but he had to admit there was something arresting in Moriarty's frozen face, his wide eyes, the misshapen slump of his shattered head. 

He looked surprised, Sherlock thought. Even though he'd pulled the trigger himself. 

"Um," Molly said. Her voice was faint. 

Sherlock's eyes snapped to her. Molly's face was sheet-white and miserable. Her lips were pressed together in a grim tight line. 

_Sherlock,_ John said in his head, his voice heavy with disapproval. Disappointment. 

Belatedly, he recalled Jim-from-IT and the ill-fated office romance. While none of it had been _real,_ it had still, perhaps, left an impression. 

"I—" he found himself, suddenly, at a loss for something to say. This was the sort of thing that John would handle, would smooth over. He had not realized quite how much he'd come to rely on that. 

He settled for reaching out a tentative hand, patting her gently on one stiff shoulder. 

She looked up at him and flinched again at the state of his face. This time, however, she did not look away. "That's it, then? He's dead. You can—you can go home. Right? It's over. None of this—" 

"No," he said, and he was suddenly very tired. "It's only just begun." 

He looked away from her and back at the corpse with its rigid shocked face. He and Mycroft had planned for several contingencies. Moriarty had chosen for him with one pull of a trigger. 

It had not been his preferred outcome. 

Still, he was alive. With any luck, he'd stay that way. 

And John would—

Well. Best not to think too much about that. John was alive, too. And as long as Sherlock worked quickly, and cleverly, and carefully, and _quietly,_ he'd be all right. 

Moriarty's face twitched. 

Sherlock blinked, stared. 

"Sherlock," Molly said, and she was staring too. She shook her head, took a hasty step forward.

He put out a hand to stop her, words dying in his mouth. The corpse twitched again, the lips pulling and then relaxing in a grotesque parody of a smile. 

He thought about decomposition and microorganisms and gas, irregularities in the onset of rigor mortis, all of the common explanations for movement of a corpse after death. None of it fit. This was—

A spider pushed out from between Moriarty's lips, scuttled across his chin, down his neck. A strand of saliva clung to its back, stretched, snapped. 

Sherlock recoiled, once more feeling the faint echo of spider legs against his own skin. He scratched at his face. 

"Oh, God," Molly said. She swallowed, looked away. "It probably—on the roof—" 

The spider dropped down from the table onto the floor, vanished into the shadows. Sherlock watched it go, said nothing. His skin itched. 

"Well. I've seen worse," Molly said. She forced a laugh, though it sounded stiff and uncomfortable. 

He looked at her. She met his gaze, then winced, looked away. 

"You need a shower," she said. 

*

The overhead light in the showers was on the verge of burning out. It flickered and buzzed, cast uneven shadows on the stained tile. 

Sherlock locked the door behind him, set the bag with his change of clothes on the floor against the wall. He peeled off his bloodstained shirt and trousers, the damp spots pulling away from his skin with an uncomfortable sucking sensation. 

The air was humid, damp. A faint smell of mould clung to the walls. 

Sherlock turned the taps, stepped aside to wait for the water to warm. 

There was a web stretched between the wall and the showerhead, beads of moisture clinging to gossamer strands. 

He'd quite liked spiders, once. Was fascinated by their habits, mesmerized by the meticulous construction of their intricate webs. 

The comparison of James Moriarty to a spider had been an apt one.

He found himself less enamored of them, now. All things considered.

Sherlock cupped his hands, gathered water. Sluiced it over the web until the fine silk had been washed away. He stepped into the spray, let the hot stream hit his face and shoulders. Tipped his head down and stared down at the wet tiles, watched red-stained water circle the drain. 

*

He spent three days camped in Molly's tiny flat. Spiders spun webs in dusty corners as he sat, fingers tented under his chin, thinking. Planning. 

Molly went to his funeral. She dressed in black. 

"I put a cut onion in my purse," she told him before she left. "Just in case." 

He stared at her for a moment, baffled, before understanding dawned. "Can't you just cry on command?" he asked. 

She shut the door firmly behind her without responding. 

When she returned, he was on the sofa. Her face was puffy and streaked, her eyes red. She stared at him for a long time. He thought she looked angry, which did not make much sense to him. Why would she be angry?

"I didn't need the onion," she said. Her voice was tight. She marched past him and into her little bathroom. The lock clicked. 

*

Two days after that, Mycroft texted him with travel arrangements and details of his first assignment. He put on his coat, found himself hesitating at the door. 

Molly sat on the sofa, watching him. 

"Thank you," he said, feeling somewhat wrong-footed. She had not spoken to him since the funeral. At the time, he'd been grateful for the silence. Now he wondered if perhaps that had been, as John was fond of saying, a bit _not good._

Molly's cat was stalking something along the wall. Its tail switched against the floor as it tensed up, readied itself to pounce. 

"Your assistance has been—" his voice trailed off, his attention caught. The cat struck, then darted away, spindly dark legs twitching at the corners of its mouth. 

"Sherlock," Molly said, and she sat forward, her hands clenching against the couch. "Don't do this. Don't—you need to tell John. At least. Before—" 

She did not complete her thought, and he did not waste breath explaining all of the reasons that was a bad idea. 

"I'm worried about him," she said, finally, when she seemed to realize he had nothing to say. Whatever she saw in his expression made her lips turn down. "About John. I don't want anything to happen to him." 

"Neither do I," Sherlock said. He rolled his eyes. "That's why I'm doing this." 

He left her flat, went to Baker Street. Stood in Mrs Hudson's weed-choked back garden and smoked a cigarette. The sky was grey, the air heavy and damp. 

If Mrs Hudson looked out her window, she would not be able to miss him. Or if John came around back with rubbish for the bins, like he did sometimes— 

Sherlock smoked another cigarette, waited. No one came into the garden. 

An hour later, he tailed John and Mrs Hudson to the cemetery, stood a few paces back and watched them look at his grave. It was a handsome stone, shiny black. A fitting memorial for a private detective with a public image. 

He hated it, as Mycroft surely had known he would when he picked it out. 

John spoke to the gravestone, rested his hand on top of it for a moment. The gesture wrenched something in Sherlock, unexpected. 

"One more miracle," John said. 

Sherlock thought of Molly saying _I'm worried about him._ Thought of Moriarty, stiff and cold in the morgue, the errant spider pushing damply past parted lips. 

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't excited by the snarled puzzle that had presented itself to him, strands upon strands to unravel and smooth. He was eager to begin. 

At the same time he—he didn't want to leave. 

John walked away. His shoulders were squared, his jaw clenched. He did not salute the grave, but the intent was there in his posture, in his movements. 

The tribute left Sherlock strangely touched. He turned to follow John, opened his mouth to speak.

His hesitant mouth was shaping the start of "J—" when he walked into a spider web that had been strung between two-low hanging trees. 

He stopped walking, gloved hands flailing and scrabbling at the sticky silk clinging to his face—his cheeks, his nose, his mouth. He swiped at his hair, the bump of something solid against his thumb telling him he'd dislodged the spider itself, or perhaps the remains of its desiccated prey. 

_You've allowed yourself unnecessary distractions,_ Mycroft said in his head. _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock, it only muddies the waters. What else haven't you noticed?_

Sherlock spat onto the soft damp grass, still feeling the ghost of the webbing against his lips. His skin tingled and itched. 

John was gone. 

He did not follow. Instead, he went over to his own gravesite, looked down at his faint reflection in the glossy stone. There was a carpet of spiders, rippling, undulating, in the dirt just over where his body would have been lain to rest. 

A small brown spider scuttled across the top of his headstone. 

Sherlock turned away. 

*

He went to Hamburg first, disguised as an American tourist with a bad spray tan and lightened hair. 

There were two men waiting for him outside the airport. They fell into step behind him, and he dodged them easily, left them confused and blinking while he ducked into a cab. 

Still, the fact that they had been there at all—

No one was supposed to know he was alive. No one should have been expecting him. 

There were eyes on him everywhere, gazes skittering across his skin like insects. Whispers in crowds, faces turning to watch him go. 

Sherlock eschewed his planned accommodations and instead took a room in a cramped boardinghouse. There were brown water stains on the ceiling, cobwebs in the corners. The bedsheets were starchy and scratchy against his skin. 

He found himself thinking, with more longing than he'd expected, of the warm comfort of 221B. Of John in his chair, of the muted sounds of London traffic through the window and the too-loud volume of Mrs Hudson's little radio below them. 

He watched spiders scuttle back and forth across the ceiling, dark and shadowy against the stained plaster as he planned his next move. 

He did not sleep. 

*

He returned from reconnaissance to discover that someone had been in his room. They had not been subtle about it. His bag has been turned inside out, his mattress gutted. Limp feathers drooped out of the massacred remains of his flimsy pillow. 

He left quickly, did not return. 

*

He shed his American persona, found a hiding place among the anonymous beggars and homeless. He huddled under blankets in a crooked alleyway. Stared up at a sliver of night sky and thought of a time not long ago when he and John had admired the stars. 

The memory warmed him. It also made him ache. He could not quite say why.

Four hours later, the men from the airport found him, dragged him out of his filthy bedding. They were laughing. 

"You can't hide," one of them said. 

"He'll always find you now," the other added.

One of them swung at him. He ducked, twisted free of their hold. One of them lurched forward and Sherlock headbutted him, split his lip. The second man tackled him to the ground. 

There was nothing clever about it. He did not outwit, outsmart, outmaneuver. He scrabbled on the wet ground of a filthy alleyway with his head ringing and the taste of blood in the back of his throat. His fingers found the jagged edge of a broken bottle, and he picked it up. When one of the men grabbed him again, he swung. 

He did not show mercy. 

After, he collapsed against the side of a skip, breathing hard, his bloodstained cheek pressed against rusty metal. 

_Got your breath back?_ he thought, his mind churning wildly. He had said that to John, once. They'd laughed about it. It felt as if it had been a very long time since he'd last laughed. If John had been there, perhaps things might have gone differently. 

London seemed very far away. 

There was rubbish overflowing from the top, and something wet and foul and vaguely sticky seeping along the ground where he sat. The bottom left corner of the skip had been mostly eaten away by rust, the paint split and bubbling and peeling. He pressed it absently with his fingers, felt it crumble and give way. 

Spiders poured from the hole like water. 

They dropped to the ground, skittered along his clothes, slipped feather-light across his skin. He lurched back, unbalanced, his raw palms scraping against the pavement. 

Farther down the alley, there were footsteps, voices, growing ever closer. 

He stumbled to his feet, ran. 

*

"Sloppy, Sherlock," Mycroft said when he picked up the phone. "You've lost focus." 

"They knew I was coming," Sherlock said. "They knew where to find me." 

"Impossible. You've been careless. You must have given yourself away." 

Sherlock had broken into a derelict little ground floor flat, had taken a shower and scrubbed the dried blood from his skin. Had changed his clothes, cut his hair. He had a bruise blooming under his left eye, abraded hands that he'd need to conceal with gloves. 

When he closed his eyes, he saw the two men in the alleyway, dark blood seeping into the cold ground. He had swung the bottle again and again, the jagged edges burying themselves in yielding flesh. 

He was trembling. He forced his hands steady, opened his eyes. Stared at a small brown spider creeping along the wall. 

"This is not what I signed on for." 

"No," Mycroft said. "I imagine it's not. So do better, next time. And _do_ take care, won't you? A second funeral would be terribly inconvenient to arrange." 

*

It was the same in Brussels, in Amsterdam, in New Delhi and New York. 

He caught a knife to the ribs, narrowly avoided a kidnapping attempt. Dodged sniper fire on a crowded street, caught the faint almond odour of cyanide wafting up from his food. 

"There is no one tipping them off," Mycroft said. "We've been monitoring. You must be doing something to give yourself away." 

"They know my every move," Sherlock said. "It's almost as if—" 

"The only person who ever connected these groups was Moriarty," Mycroft said. "And he's dead." 

Sherlock thought of Moriarty with the gun between his teeth, the hot copper smell of blood and the surprised grin on his face. The spider that had birthed itself from his cold, stiff lips in the morgue. 

"Are you sure?" 

There was a pause, an uncomfortable one. "Oh yes," Mycroft said, finally. "Quite sure."

*

Mycroft sent him a fresh assignment. He read the details. It would require him to be clever, to be devious, to be all of the things he'd been good at, once. 

He could not remember what it felt like to be interested in anything. 

He went to the airport, pickpocketed a businessman and picked a flight at random. He repeated his steps at three major airports, crisscrossing the globe with no destination in mind. He switched clothes and identities and personalities, traveled by rail, by car, on horseback. 

He did not return Mycroft's calls. 

When he'd convinced himself that he'd left no discernible trail, he allowed himself to rest. He rented a small cottage under an assumed name, sat and listened to the rain batter against the leaking roof, the wind rattling the windows in their frames. 

The creaks and groans of the old house settling around him had him on edge, leaping to his feet, pacing, smoking cigarette after cigarette. The knife wound in his side had healed badly, and it pained him. 

He thought about the last time he'd seen John, there at his grave. He'd almost spoken, then. Had almost given in to the strange twisting temptation to let himself be known. 

He'd had good reasons not to do so, at the time. He could remember none of them. 

_John,_ he thought, miserably. 

Molly had wanted him to speak up. She'd wanted him to say—something—she'd asked him to. He hadn't done it. It had seemed important, but he hadn't understood why. 

The wind gusted, the house rattled. He strained to listen for furtive footsteps behind every creak and shift. 

London thought he was dead, John thought he was dead, but every criminal who had ever peripherally been involved with James Moriarty seemed to know he was alive. They haunted him, hunted him, pursued him. 

He was dead to his friends and alive to his enemies, reduced to cowering at the far reaches of the earth with nothing but spiders for company. 

He had accomplished nothing. 

Sherlock put out his cigarette, went into the small cold bedroom, crawled into the creaky bed and stared at the ceiling. He did not mean to sleep, but it took him anyway. 

He dreamed in fits and starts, tangled threads that wrapped around him and held fast as he struggled. Moriarty with his gun and his smile. The spider between his lips. Molly on the sofa, her face pinched, her words ignored. Spiders, far too many of them, churning in the loose soil atop his own grave. 

He dreamed of John, John and his graveside salute, of his own words stolen away by the brush of a web against his face. Distracted, unfocused, _caring is not an advantage._ Blood in an alleyway, his own and that of strangers. Flesh yielding under jagged glass. 

He opened his eyes gasping in the darkness, a weight on his chest. 

The weight _moved,_ it _shifted,_ and he flailed his hands up from under the sheets to bat at himself, striking something heavy, knocking it loose. 

Something else fell from the ceiling, striking the bedding with a meaty _plop._

He sat up, lunging for the bedside lamp, as another shape fell from the rafters, and then another, and another. Even before the room burst into light, he knew. 

Tarantulas. Fat and hairy, squirming on the sheets and on his chest, dropping down from unseen shadows above. 

Sherlock lurched backwards, tumbling out of the bed and onto his arse on the cold wood floor. His mouth was cotton dry, and the scream that wanted to force itself out of his throat would not come. 

One of the spiders reached the edge of the bedding and thumped over the edge, scuttling towards him on the hardwood. 

He found his feet, fled. 

He did not bother to pack up his meager belongings. He took a coat, his pilfered passports, and went out into the howling night. 

*

He walked out of Heathrow looking like a stranger to even himself, but there was a black car idling just outside the terminal, and Mycroft leaning against it and tapping his umbrella on the damp ground in a surprising show of nerves. 

"Foolish," Mycroft said to him, and opened the door. 

Sherlock slid into the back seat without a word, hissing as the badly healed wound in his side pulled. 

"You're injured." 

"Well observed," Sherlock said. 

"I had—rather different expectations for your little excursion." 

"A waste of time." 

"So that's it, then? Criminal networks left intact, and you just waltz back home and resume your life?" 

"It was either that or—" Sherlock stopped. Unbidden, in his mind, he saw himself, desiccated and pallid, strung up in sticky gossamer strands. His own mouth, wide open in a silent scream, his eyes alert and still somehow alive. 

He shut his eyes, shook his head. Turned to the window and let his head rest against the cool glass. 

"Sherlock." 

"He wasn't a man," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and looking through the windowglass as London slipped past. He had missed his city. "He was a spider. A spider at the center of a web. I said that, once." 

"You say a lot of things," Mycroft said, after a moment. He was still holding his umbrella between his knees, clenched tightly. "Very few worth listening to." 

"A thousand threads and he knows how they all dance." 

"Knew." 

Sherlock blinked, looked away from the window. "What?" 

"He had a thousand threads, yes. And he knew how they danced. But he's dead, Sherlock. He knows nothing, not anymore." 

"Someone knows." 

Mycroft sighed, rubbed at his temples with his fingertips. "Do you need a hospital?" 

"John." 

"Sherlock—" 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. He was unsure what he saw in Mycroft's face. It was unsettling, not to be able to read him. 

"The danger has not passed. You've accomplished nothing." 

"They've known all along," Sherlock said. "This whole time. Possibly before I even left. If they meant to carry out Moriarty's threat, they would have done so." 

Mycroft sighed again, looked up at the ceiling. 

"Foolish," he said again. 

*

John no longer lived at Baker Street. The bland little house they pulled up in front of was puzzling and troubling and entirely unexpected. 

"He left, Sherlock, shortly after your funeral." 

"Why would he do that?" 

"Why, indeed." 

Sherlock reached over and unlocked the door. "Well. Thanks for the lift." 

"You're just going to knock on the door." 

"What would you have me do? Jump out of a cake?" 

"I hope you know what you're doing, little brother." 

Sherlock ignored him, stepped out of the car and stood glaring at it until it pulled away. Then he adjusted his dirty coat—thinking, for a brief moment, that perhaps he should have stopped off to get himself cleaned up first—and stepped briskly up to the front door. 

He rang the bell. After a moment, he rang it again. And again. Firm, impatient stabs of his finger.

There were footsteps. His heart jumped. 

"All right, all right, Jesus, I heard you the first time you don't need to keep ringing it—" John's voice, grumpy and familiar and _home._

Sherlock's knees nearly gave out. The world made sense again, suddenly. He was alive. He could accomplish anything. He'd been going about this entirely the wrong way and nothing had worked but John was here and John would fix things, John would—

John opened the door. 

"Hello," Sherlock said. 

John said nothing. He stood staring, and staring, and staring. His hand clenched white on the doorframe. 

Something twisted in Sherlock's heart, and he took a step forward, confidence faltering, hand outstretched. His chest exploded in heat and fire, punching the breath out of him. This time his knees did give out and he plunged to the ground, thinking _that was rather a more extreme reaction that I was expecting._

Then he looked down and saw the blood.


	2. Chapter 2

*

He was—

Tangled in a web, mouth open in a silent scream. The spider drew closer, legs making faint wet ticking sounds as they dragged along the damp threads. It was heading for his mouth, he knew. His gaping, horrified mouth. 

There was a wound in his chest, a bloody mess where his heart ought to have been. He oozed crimson onto the white strands that bound him. Had he even had a heart to begin with? He'd thought not, once. He was no longer very sure of that. 

He was no longer very sure of anything at all. 

The webbing dropped away and he fell. The ground beneath him rushed up to meet him and he struck the pavement in front of Barts face first. There was nothing soft to stop him, not this time. His bones compressed, his head caved in and he sank. 

Blood on the pavement. Not his own. A glass bottle in his hand, his heart thundering against his ribs. He was a sociopath, wasn't he? Death should not bother him. Not even when it was dealt by his own trembling hand. They had found him. They had found him and they would have killed him so he killed them instead. He could still feel it, the way the glass had carved deep into flesh. He was afraid he might always feel it. His hand had shaken, badly. His whole body had shaken. Was still shaking. 

The little cottage, cold and miserable in the wind and rain. White sheets. Fat spiders tumbling from the rafters, seeking him out, brushing along his skin. Taunting, teasing, terrorizing. 

He was a child again, wide-eyed and curious. He snapped gum and blew bubbles because it irritated his brother. The sickly-sweet scent rose in the air. He blew a bubble that grew larger and larger, until it looked more like a sugary pink balloon lifting towards the sky. There was darkness inside that bubble, a shadowy shape with eight legs, shifting and moving, _weighty._ The bubble burst and it was loose, it was on his face, suffocating and quivering and reaching for his screaming mouth. 

_Not a man._

Moriarty, slipping the gun between his smiling lips. 

_A spider._

That spider, the first one, pushing out of that shocked mouth, scuttling wetly across dead skin. 

Spiders in the corners at Molly's flat, her cat hunting them with stealthy efficiency.

"Sherlock," John's voice, John's face swimming in and out of focus. 

He swatted upwards at John, trying to push him back. Idiot. Didn't he realize there was a sniper? Sherlock had painted a target on his head, had marched up to his door and delivered the fatal bullet himself. There was blood on John's face, splashed across his cheeks in a shocking red spray. 

"Sherlock," John said again, and his hands were cool on Sherlock's flushed face. If he had to go, this was acceptable. It wasn't what he wanted, but he'd take it. It was enough. 

When the darkness took him again, he did not fight it. 

*

He opened his eyes in hospital. There was a nurse checking his vitals. Upon noticing his waking, she stopped what she was doing and stood looking down at him. She did not speak. 

His brain came online with a terrible grinding slowness. 

_Panic,_ he told himself belatedly. He ought to be panicking. She was not what she appeared to be. 

She looked up at the ceiling and he followed her gaze. There was a spider dangling from a silken thread, delicate legs curled underneath it. 

He shuddered. 

She looked back at him, raised her brows. Her cheeks shifted, and he thought she might be smiling behind the white mask she wore. 

She reached up, knocked the spider to the ground with a flick of her wrist. Stepped on it. 

He watched. He found himself unable to do much else. His throat was tight. 

"I'm not going to kill you," the nurse said. She stepped closer to his bedside. Her gaze was cool, appraising. She reached up and pulled down her mask, let him see her face. 

He waited, because it was clear she had more to say. 

"He told me you'd find a way out of it," she said. "He was hoping you would. He held you in high regard." 

He blinked, met her gaze. Nodded. 

"I was supposed to wait for the right moment, your triumphant return, and then kill John Watson in front of you." 

His pulse spiked, the traitorous monitors giving him away. He cleared his throat, struggled to move. 

"I was aiming for him," she said mildly. "You stepped into my line of fire." 

He stared at her for a long moment. His vision was blurry around the edges. 

He thought about angles and trajectories and where he'd been standing when his chest had caught fire. The terrifying coiled competence held in the line of her shoulders, the curve of her back. 

"You didn't miss," he said. His voice rasped painfully out of his dry throat. 

She smiled. It was not a particularly pleasant smile, but it was genuine. "No." 

"You meant to shoot me." 

"Yes." 

"But not to kill me." 

She shrugged, looked back up at the ceiling. He did not miss the way her eyes sought the dark corners. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"Because I don't want to do this anymore," she said. 

"Moriarty is dead." 

She looked back at him, lifted her brows. "That doesn't mean he isn't watching." 

*

When he came to a second time, Molly was sat in a plastic chair near his bedside. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail (done hastily, absently, she'd been surprised in the middle of some task), her right arm was held at an awkward angle (older injury or strain, residual soreness) and she'd chewed at her lower lip. It was chapped and raw (stress, worry, concern—)

"Sherlock," she said, when she saw his eyes had opened. She sat forward, the stress dropping from her shoulders. 

_Oh,_ he thought. It had been concern for him. 

"Are you all right?" she asked, and then she winced, looked away. "Well. No. I mean. Of course you're not all right. You were shot. You're lucky you even—no—just—" she stopped, blew out a frustrated breath.

"I'm all right," he lied. His chest felt like it was on fire. 

She frowned at him for a moment. 

"I'm glad you're back," she said, finally.

He stared at her. She'd spoken genuinely. 

"It's been—weird. Here. Since." 

"Since?" 

"Since you left. Died. Whatever." 

The air around him seemed to curdle. He shifted in the narrow bed, winced as a bolt of agony shot through his chest. 

"Weird how?" 

"Well. It's just—just weird. Sort of like being watched. All the time." 

"Just you?" 

"No," she said. "John too. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade." 

His arms prickled. The back of his neck had gone cold. He turned his head, studied Molly carefully. She was still holding her right arm gingerly, cradling it across her lap. 

"Your arm," he said. 

She jolted in her chair a little bit, as if he'd surprised her.

"It's injured." 

"It's nothing, just—" 

"Molly."

She sighed, pulled up the bright sleeve of her jumper, held out her forearm as an offering. 

The scar was deep, and quite ugly. 

Sherlock winced at the sight, leaned forward. He recognized the aftermath of necrosis. He'd done several studies on the subject.

"Spider bite," Molly said. She bit her lip, looked away. Did not pull down the sleeve of her jumper, did not hide away the wound marring her pale skin. "Brown recluse. I was lucky. It could have been much worse." 

He was familiar with the brown recluse. The markings on its back formed the shape of a violin. 

He reached out, his fingertips hovering but not quite touching. 

"It's stupid," Molly said, and this time she did pull her sleeve down, stepped back out of reach. "It's just a spider bite. I know that. A freak accident. But. But it felt deliberate. Like a—like a warning. Or—" 

"Or a punishment," Sherlock said. 

Her eyes snapped to his, wide and surprised. She nodded. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. 

She laughed, uncomfortable, looked away. "For what?" 

*

Sherlock dozed, adrift on a hazy cloud of morphine. He heard the click of the door and struggled to throw off the vestiges of sleep. He blinked, blinked again, waited for his vision to focus. 

John stood at the foot of his bed, staring at him. His face was difficult to read. 

"John," Sherlock said, and let his head fall back on the pillow. He breathed out hard, reached over to turn down the morphine pump. John did not dissipate or fade away. He was real. 

John did not move. His hands gripped the footrest, knuckles gone quite white. 

After a long, fraught moment, his face crumpled. "Jesus," he said. "Jesus." He took a staggering step forward, and then another, still holding onto the bedrail. He came around to the side, twisted one hand into the scratchy bedsheets, pulled absently. He put his other hand over his eyes, pressed. He breathed out hard through his nose, the sound emerging along with a low groan. 

It was all rather alarming. 

"Sorry," Sherlock tried. His mouth felt cottony and strange. 

John laughed, the sound almost involuntary, like a hiccup. He did not remove his hand from his face. "Fuck you." 

Sherlock pursed his lips, hesitated. 

John lifted his head. His face was flushed, his eyes wild with something that might have been relief or fury. He relaxed the hand that was tangling in the hospital sheets, pulled it back slowly, as if just realizing it was there at all. "Fuck you," he said again. 

"Got that the first time," Sherlock said. He tried to laugh, but it emerged as a weak rasp.

John made no move to sit in the little chair Molly had used earlier. His hands were shaking. 

"You just—you just _showed up._ " John said. "You showed up and said _hello_ like you hadn't been—like you hadn't just—and then someone bloody _shot_ you. You just—your blood was on my face. In my eyes. You just—" 

"Sorry," Sherlock said again. He cleared his throat, wished he could clear his head. "Wasn't quite what I'd planned." 

"Wasn't what you planned," John repeated.

"I'd—" _just wanted to see you,_ he did not say. 

"You died in front of me," John said, his voice flat. "Twice." 

"Oh," Sherlock said. He hesitated, eyed John cautiously. "Well. Not really." 

John laughed again, but there was nothing mirthful in the sound. His hands clenched at his sides. 

"I tried," Sherlock said, finally. "I was supposed to—there was a plan." 

"There's always a bloody plan." 

"Well, yes."

"I should have been in on it." 

"Yes," Sherlock said, and he meant it. 

John looked at him, pressed his lips together tightly. 

"I'm sorry," he said again. This time he meant that too. 

John tugged the little chair closer, dropped into it. Breathed out hard again. He did not seem to know what to do with his hands. 

"Am I going home?" 

"Home? No. You were shot in the chest. Your heart stopped." 

"Ah," Sherlock said. He looked away. 

"They didn't catch the person who did it." 

"No," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't worry. She'll not be trying that again." 

"What?" 

He smiled, and it was a strange feeling, the way his lips curled up all of their own volition. John's very presence, angry and uncomfortable as it all was, had that effect on him. 

John shifted in his chair. He was breathing through his nose, holding himself very still. "You have—other injuries. Too." 

"It wasn't a particularly pleasant holiday, John." Sherlock kept his head turned away, his gaze seeking the ceiling, paying particular attention to the dusty corners, searching for motion. 

"What are you—?"

"Spiders," Sherlock said. "I'm looking for spiders." 

"Why are you looking for spiders?" 

"Because I don't particularly want them to spy on us." 

John was silent for a long moment.

"I realize," Sherlock said, slowly. "That doesn't actually make sense." 

John took his hand. His palm was dry. He squeezed firmly, held on. Did not answer. 

*

_Moriarty is dead._

_"That doesn't mean he isn't watching._

The nurse who wasn't a nurse. Hard eyes, coiled competence, surprising candor. Swiping the spider down from the ceiling, crushing it under her heel. 

_"That doesn't mean he isn't watching._

Molly's worried eyes, the crater of ruined flesh on her forearm. 

_It felt deliberate. Like a—like a warning._

_Or a punishment._

Molly had stood next to him in the morgue and watched the spider push out from between Moriarty's cold dead lips. It had rattled her. It had rattled them both. 

He was alive because of Molly, he could not have pulled off his plan without her. Moriarty had disregarded her, he had dismissed her, considered her unimportant. 

_It felt deliberate._

The brown recluse spider, with the violin curving gracefully over its back, delivering its devastating bite. It was poetic, in a way. Meaningful. _Deliberate._

Spiders in the alley. The two men, grabbing at him, laughing as they dragged him from his hiding place. 

_He'll always find you now._

The bottle in his hand, blood on his face. Spiders, pouring from the skip. 

_He'll always find you now._

*

Sherlock left the hospital through the window.

He hailed a taxi, went to Baker Street. Walked slowly with his hand pressed over the ache in his chest. 

There was a light in the upstairs window, a soft golden glow in the sitting room. The sight moved him. 

He went upstairs, mindful of excessive creaking. 

John was in the sitting room, in his chair, staring at the darkened fireplace. He sighed when he heard Sherlock's footsteps, put his head in his hands. 

"You're a fucking idiot." 

"I wanted—" Sherlock turned slowly in a circle, took in the room. He'd missed it. He had not allowed himself to think about it, much, but he'd missed it. He did not let his eyes linger on the corners, the shadows, all the dark places where something might be hiding. 

"I know what you wanted," John said. His eyes were damp in the dim light. "Everyone wants—everyone wants to go home. But you have a _hole in your chest._ You need to be in hospital." 

Sherlock moved to his own chair, sat gingerly. His chest clenched and burned. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. 

"There's something going on," Sherlock said. "Something not entirely—natural." 

"This about the spiders again?" 

Sherlock smiled, because John was never as slow as he seemed. 

"Molly was lucky," John said. "That's what you're thinking about, isn't it? The tissue damage was extensive, but it could have been a lot worse. She caught it in time." 

"The brown recluse is known for a distinct pattern on its back. A violin." 

"Right," John said. He laughed, a hard sound. "So it was—what? Karma? Moriarty's revenge from beyond the grave?" 

"Something like that." 

"You realize what that sounds like." 

"John—" Sherlock hesitated. "While I was away, I wasn't—I didn't—I failed. Again and again, over and over. Someone knew my every move, seemingly before I made it." 

"Distraction," John said. "Injury. The fact that you might not always be as bloody clever as you'd like to believe you are." 

"There were spiders. Always. Everywhere I went." 

"There are hundreds of millions of spiders in the world," John said calmly. He picked up the little Union Jack pillow from where it lay on the floor beside the chair, dropped it into his lap. He seemed pleased to see it, and gave it a little pat. "You know this, Sherlock." 

"Yes, of course, but—" 

John's face changed. He shoved the pillow off of his lap, stood up. Stared down at his hand. 

"Sherlock," he said. "Christ. What—" 

There was something crawling on the back of the pillow. Something dark, graceful and sleek. Eight efficient legs, plump body. John kicked at the pillow and the spider flipped onto the floor, vivid red hourglass visible on its underside. 

A black widow. 

_I was supposed to wait for the right moment, your triumphant return, and then kill John Watson in front of you._

"John," Sherlock said, panic clenching his throat. He stood up, pushing roughly off of the armrests of his chair. His chest wrenched, pain tightening and searing fire-hot across his heart. 

"No," John said, holding up his hand. "Christ. Just, stay there. Don't—" 

"He's going to make me watch," Sherlock said, and he knew it was true as the words came out of his mouth. 

It did not matter if the assassins walked away, if Moriarty's vast criminal network crumbled or stood firm. He had been hunted and hounded and pursued, not into dying, but into giving up and coming home. Moriarty was not protecting his interests, he was crafting a web, a single perfect trap. 

Lose everything. Fail. Return. Suffer. 

He should have stayed away. They would die now, all of them, starting with John. There would be no gunshots, no knives, no kidnappings. No dramatic hail of bullets. Just the soft whisper of feather-light legs against skin, a pinch and a slip of venom. Again and again and again until it was all over. 

They wouldn't harm him. He'd be left to spin, tangled and helpless. Nothing to do but wait and watch. 

_I was supposed to wait for the right moment, your triumphant return, and then kill John Watson in front of you._

"He's going to make me watch," Sherlock said again, and it emerged as a low moan. His chest burned and ached (internal bleeding, erratic pulse, chance for cardiac arrest, he shouldn't have—he ought to—) 

His vision blurred. His knees buckled and he grabbed at the armrests, desperately trying to hold himself up, pushing himself forward towards John. 

John, who had stomped on the spider with a definitive motion. He moved forward, caught Sherlock by the shoulders, held him firmly. 

"You need an ambulance." 

" _You_ need an ambulance," Sherlock hissed through his teeth. 

"No," John said. He was pressing gently at Sherlock's shoulders, trying to get him to sit down. "It stings, I'll grant you that. But it's not fatal."

"Not yet," Sherlock said. His words dripped, sluggish and useless, out of his mouth. He was hot and cold all at once. He could not make John understand. One spider bite could be treated, of course. But they would be everywhere. In his shoes, his bed, under the collar of his favourite jumper. Hiding quietly in the back of dressers, spinning webs in dusty corners. 

John had taken out his phone, was speaking urgently to someone. Paramedics. 

Eight minutes. The average arrival time for an ambulance. 

He could—he should be able to—well, they might need to restart his heart, but with any luck they'd be equipped to do so—

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket with leaden fingers. Dialed Mycroft. 

"Grown tired of pestering the nurses and have instead elected to inflict yourself on me?" Mycroft's voice was bored, drawling. "I'm delighted, truly, but—" 

"Moriarty's body," Sherlock gasped. "Where is it? What's happened to it?" 

Mycroft did not answer, which usually meant that Sherlock had managed to shock him. He did not have the energy to feel satisfied. 

"His body was cremated," Mycroft said slowly. "You know this." 

"No," Sherlock said. "There's something—" he grit his teeth through another wave of pain. His vision dimmed, a frightening, rolling darkness that bled in from the edges. "Something you're not telling me." 

"Sherlock," John said. His face was right there, tight and concerned and pained. His hand on Sherlock's sweaty cheek, stroking, soothing. "Sherlock, help is on the way, but you need to—" 

" _WHAT AREN'T YOU TELLING ME?_ " Sherlock snarled into the phone, and then his legs gave out and he fell backwards into his chair, still struggling for breath. 

"I—" Mycroft sounded flabbergasted, stunned, at a loss for words. "His brain was badly damaged, of course. From the gunshot." 

"And?" 

"The Royal Society expressed an interest, regardless. There were certain abnormalities." 

The world tilted around him, and Sherlock shut his eyes. "Burn it." 

"Sherlock—"

"BURN IT!"

And then John had clawed the phone out of his hand, and was shouting angrily and Sherlock could not make out the words because everything had gone quite fuzzy and loud but he thought John might be agreeing with him and that was nice, that was good, and maybe he could just—

Then there was nothing. 

*

He awoke in hospital. 

His chest felt as if it had been ripped open and haphazardly patched back together. Which, he supposed, wasn't far off from the truth. 

John was next to him, little chair tucked up close. He was asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly. 

Sherlock looked at his hand. It was swollen, bruised. 

Suddenly, John's steady breathing was not enough.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

John stirred, lifted his hands to his face, made a grumbling sound in the back of his throat. Sat up. 

"Sherlock?" John blinked away his confusion, leaned forward. Placed both of his hands on Sherlock's forearm, squeezed. 

"Your hand," Sherlock said. 

John smiled, a bewildered little smile. Shook his head a little bit. "Fine, like I said. I mean, well, not _fine,_ it's quite painful, but—" he shrugged, flexed his fingers. "Paracetamol helps. So." 

Sherlock smiled at that, nodded. His head felt cottony and dreamy. Morphine, he supposed. Lots of it. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, scanned the corners. 

"Your brother listened to you," John said. The smile had disappeared from his voice. "I don't really know what—well. Apparently, someone had part of Moriarty's brain in a jar. That's very—um. Well, I guess I can't say I'm _surprised,_ exactly, but—" 

"It's gone?" 

"So he says." John shifted in his chair, scratched at the back of his neck.

They sat quietly for a moment. 

"I haven't had much of a chance to get properly angry at you," John said, finally. 

Sherlock smiled again, closed his eyes. "You will," he said.

"I spoke with Mrs Hudson," John said. "She said she's had her flat fumigated three times these past few months. Spiders, apparently." 

Sherlock opened his eyes. 

"They're gone, now," John said. 

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling again. "Are they?" 

John shrugged, then tipped his head towards the little side table, where he'd set a can of insect repellent. "In case they aren't." 

*

It was some time before he was permitted to return home. 

He remained compliant. He listened to his doctors. He made no further attempts to escape through the window. 

There was a flurry of media attention, but reporters were barred from his room. His exposure was limited. 

Lestrade visited, and Mrs Hudson, and Molly. People sent flowers. He carefully inspected the vivid blooms and curling leaves, found nothing unusual. 

John came frequently, sat by his bedside with a newspaper or book. He did not always speak, though occasionally Sherlock felt his eyes on him. 

He wondered if John would ever get to the part where he got properly angry. As time went on, he found he hoped not. 

*

Baker Street had been thoroughly cleaned and dusted. The bulbs in all of the lamps had been replaced. They were brighter, reached farther. The distant corners of the flat were no longer entirely mysterious. 

Still, there were places to hide. He searched them. Found nothing. 

*

John stayed with him, changed his bandages, doled out his medication. His hands brushed carefully over old scars and new. 

They were a grounding weight, those hands, even when he touched lightly. Nothing like the fleeting gossamer kiss of the spider. 

"I'm glad you're not dead," he said, one evening. He did not make eye contact as he spoke. The words seemed to come with difficulty. "I wanted you not to be dead." 

Sherlock thought all of this might have been a good deal easier if he simply had died. But he found himself unwilling to disagree. 

He thought about spiders: the widow, the recluse with its violin. When John leaned forward and tentatively brushed their lips together, he responded with a fervor he never knew he could possess, his entire body lighting up with sensation, with need, with desire. 

*

John moved back in, officially, permanently. He said nothing about it, simply began hauling up boxes and bags, shelving books and hanging up clothes. It was comforting. He felt content, happy.

"There are upwards of 25 million tonnes of spiders in the world," Sherlock told him. 

John stopped what he was doing, turned to look at him. 

"There's a high probability that there are several spiders in the flat at this very moment. They are, in fact, everywhere. There's no avoiding them." 

"All right," John said slowly. He sat down. 

"Most are harmless to us," Sherlock said. He swallowed, fought against the urge to sweep his gaze along the ceiling. 

"Most," John agreed. He did not seem to know what to say. 

"25 million tonnes of spiders," Sherlock said again. "Most species have eight eyes. Some have six." 

"That's—" John cleared his throat, shifted in his chair. "A lot of eyes." 

"Yes," Sherlock said. 

He thought of Moriarty and his flat black eyes. He thought he might never truly rest easy again, no matter how happy or content he felt. There would always be eyes in the dark, always a faint tickling sensation just out of reach, fleeting, ghostly. A thin strand threatening to become a noose.

"A lot of eyes," Sherlock echoed. He looked up at the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!


End file.
